Inability
by timeturns
Summary: And although everyone is happy with the man he has grown to be, he isn't. He is far from happy. For all that he is that which he is not. This is the story of Regulus Arcturus Black. And no matter how much he wished to change his story, he could not.
1. Dedication

dedicated

to the people who were about to do **the right thing**

but **lost the courage** to,

to those who were **rejected** by society

and to those who were **too scared to be rejected**,

to the people who took the **risk**,

and to those who were **too afraid **to.

but mostly to all the fuck ups,

**here's to us. **


	2. Note

**Author's Note**

After months, I finally found the time and courage to publish this fanfic. Yay for me! Haha. I have long been searching for a story of Regulus' life especially his struggles to find himself in the world and seeing as they're quite rare now, I've decided to give it a go. I hope you guys like this! Review if you wish. It will be really appreciated x

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><p><span><em>Full Synopsis<em>

This story isn't of a boy who lived. Nor is it of a terribly powerful wizard who strived to achieve pureblood supremacy in the wizarding world. This is a story of a boy who succumbed to his family's wishes and lead a life of uncompromising beliefs in ranks and status. And although everyone is happy with the man he has grown to be, he isn't. He is far from happy. For all that he is that which he is not.

This is the story of Regulus Arcturus Black.

And no matter how much he wished to change his story, he could not.

_Background_

Inability is a Harry Potter fanfiction set _mostly_ in the Marauder's Era and the First Wizarding War. The fan fiction mainly revolves around Regulus Black, whose life was not quite mentioned in the series. I have always been fascinated with his character and no matter how incomplete his story was in the books, I believe it is still a story worth telling.

_Warning_

This story may contain swearing and dark themes like extreme depression, self-harm and violence. Alright, scratch the 'may'. There is a lot of them and if you aren't comfortable with reading something like this, proceed with caution.

_Disclaimer _

Unfortunately, I do not own the world of Harry Potter nor the characters. J.K. Rowling, in all her supreme magical glory, owns it all.


	3. Zero

❝ _There's nothing you can do._

_It's broken beyond repair._

_It's in a million little pieces. _❞

— James Frey, "A Million Little Pieces"

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><p><strong>zero.<strong>

**S**irius was nothing compared to Regulus.

At least, that's what his darling of a mother would always say. When the Black family received word of his brother and his sorting to the house of ole Godric Gryffindor, their parents went fucking ballistic. They were utterly enraged. Even when his house elf, Kreacher, escorted him back to his quarters in an effort to _save Master from further damage,_ (_As if my life wasn't any more screwed up, _Regulus snorted.) he still heard his mother throwing, smashing and thrashing furniture as if they were nothing. Being sorted in the Slytherin house was a very important thing in his family and in any other pureblood family for that matter. Regulus knew that from the very start.

Being in Slytherin was the mark of a _true _pureblood and if you weren't in there, you were filth. A disgrace. A fuck up.

When the time came for Regulus to start his schooling, he was a nervous wreck. Sirius kept pestering him on the train ride, blurting out the usual 'everything-will-be-okay' crap but unfortunately, it wasn't helping Reg in the slightest. Sirius sensed the uncomfortable silence though and broke it with a few corny jokes, just as he always did. Regulus tried his very best not to laugh at his brother's lameness but failed once Sirius started making his signature puns using his first name. _'It's gonna be fine, mate. I'm __sirius __about it.'_

But his brother's humor didn't stop the voices in in his head from haunting Reg. His palms were sweating and tears were threatening to slip and make his way through his cheeks.

He could have said he was too young, too weak and naive when he made the decision but he knew that was utter bullocks. He knew the life he would lead when he decided but he just thought... he just thought he could deal with it. He thought he could play with fate.

But he learned the truth now. Fate never played fair.

He was _scared, _as scared as an eleven-year-old boy could be.

So, when the Sorting Hat touched Regulus' head, he was very torn. Torn between pleasing his family and pleasing his brother.

It was strange, in a way. Sirius was his brother and therefore was his family as well. But why does Regulus feel like a line was drawn, as if separating Sirius from the rest?

Maybe it was because his brother wasn't sorted in Slytherin. Maybe it was because he wasn't as intimidating as the rest of his folks. Maybe it was because of his beliefs that, no matter how much disgusted looks he got from his parents, he still wore them proudly in his sleeve. Maybe it was because he cared for the people he loved, whatever their blood was. Maybe it was because he had made true friends, friends who were there for him not because of his family's wealth or popularity or status. Maybe it was because he lived his life carelessly and dangerously yet still very to the fullest. Maybe it was because he, a.. a bl... a _blood traitor_, was living a true life.

And then he felt them. A single weak tear fell down through his cheek. There came another. And another. And another. And another. And soon enough, the infamous Regulus Arcturus Black was crying.

But he didn't bother wiping his tear-streaked face. For in that moment, he realized who the true fuck up was and it definitely wasn't his brother.


	4. One

❝ _And I just ran out of band aids,_

_I don't even know where to start, _

_Cause you can bandage the damage,_

_you never really can fix a heart. _❞

— Demi Lovato, "Fix a Heart"

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><p><strong>o n e <strong>

**I**t was raining hard when Regulus stepped outside to go to the Quidditch pitch. He had not thought about bringing an umbrella for the light grey clouds hovering in the sky seemed to suggest only light five-minute rain showers to him. But apparently, as suggested by his _lovely_ Divination professor, he was very bad at predicting.

And so there he was, running across the fields, his Comet Two Sixty in hand, his clothes damp and wet of rain water. He was light and very quick and for a seeker, he, was no doubt one of the best there was in the school.

He slowed his pace down as the Quidditch pitch came into view. He breathed deeply, holding a hand on his chest. Shivering as the icy temperature finally caught up on him, he tried to warm himself up, hugging his torso tightly.

It was pointless though. The cold was indefinite.

He heard people shouting. He couldn't make out the words at first but as he grew nearer to the place, he caught them chanting his house.

_SLYTHERIN! __SLYTHERIN! __SLYTHERIN!_

He headed to a small entrance located at the left, leading towards the changing rooms. As he entered, he saw that his team mates were already there, preparing for the long awaited Quidditch game of the season.

The team of course was consisted mostly of infamous sons and daughters of different pureblood families, including those of the Sacred Twenty-Eight like himself. Graham for one was the descendant of the House of Selwyn and was popular for his brilliant execution of the Porskoff Ploy in untimely moments of the game. He does well as a chaser but the endless tricks he has up on his sleeve may only do two things: grant the team victory or a chance of losing.

Reg spotted the bloke, who greeted him with a nod.

Some other players who had not the fame nor status like that of the other families, had quite the fortune and bought their way across the team. Although such things were frowned upon, it could not really be denied. Such people include the Derricks, who were both fortunate enough to be handed the positions of the two beaters. They both lay in the wooden benches, nearest to the doors, snoring loudly as they sleep.

Those without fortune and fame were a different case altogether. Unlike the Selwyns and the Derricks, they could not easily flick their positions with their names or galleons. They could, however, flick a smile.

People who weren't well enough nor popular enough for the team charmed their way in. With fair faces, there was no question as to how they were not denied and being most of the players in the team were males, Emma Vanity and Teresa Walsh got their chaser and keeper positions respectively.

But there were certain others, who had these three qualities wrapped in one figure and more. And that just happened to be Reg's very best friend.

"Man, where the hell were you?"

The youngest Black nearly jumped but he didn't for the voice was too familiar that he recognized it immediately. Speak_of the devil_, he thought. Reg shook his head and fought the urge to smirk.

"Merlin's beard, Knightley, you scared the bloody hell out of me." He looked around the room, finding the source of the voice lying on one of the wooden benches in the room nearest to the door, tossing a snitch back and forth against the ceiling. The boy, his supposed best friend, stared at him in amusement while curling his lips into a sloppy grin. "Someone clearly woke up on the wrong side of the bed."

Reg rolled his eyes. "Don't go there, Knightley. Please, I'm not in the mood. Not now."

Knightley chuckled and jumped to his feet, letting the snitch fly across the room. "Seriously, my friend, what has gotten into your pants? You sound like that Mcgonagall bitch," he remarked, giving Reg a pat in the shoulder.

Reg just glared at him, his grey eyes firm.

Knight, who probably got the message, bit his lip and put his arm down by his side. "Sorry, mate. I couldn't help myself but seriously, is everything okay? You look paler than usual," The chaser looked at him with a questioning glance, surprised and perplexed. He was not used to seeing his best friend so messy and rattled.

There was nothing more that Reg wanted than to slap his best friend at that very moment. Why he became his friend, he did not know. He only knew that he liked books and that was enough for Reg to settle with. He did not know however that him being as dense as a fucking stone was part of the package. Come to think of it, he really did not know what came with a package called Knightley Montague.

Now as much as Reg wanted to say a sarcastic remark in front of the chaser, he did not, mentally reminding himself of the boy's aggressive temper. Instead, he kept it to himself.

"It's just the rain," he insisted, closing the door behind him. Taking a deep breath, he headed to his closet at the right side of the room.

Each player in the team had their own closet in which they kept their belongings if they wished to. They had different features, different ways of locking and unlocking the doors. Some had large locks, some had chains and some with terrible punishments to whoever dared to open it. They were all different and none were alike. The only thing similar about each was the size they had, which was enough to fit a person inside.

Reg was quite simple with his choice of locking systems. It seemed complicated but in truth, it was nothing fancy. It was just a couple of charms he had heard of from reading.

His closet, unlike most of the others, was in dark marine blue instead of green. It was enveloped in many silver vines, wrapped in each other as if holding off people to peak at what was inside. He was secretly proud of it, having it conjured during his third year when he was first cast as a seeker.

Reg mumbled a few words. They were barely audible but it was enough. In the exact same moment, the vines started unwrapping slowly, untying themselves from each other like loose knots. They had soft creaks here and there, as if they were made of real tree branches and vines. When they were done and all that was left was a door of the same dark blue color and a small silver keyhole by the left side, Knight finally found the words to speak.

"Even after three years, yours never stops amazing me," Knight said with a small smile.

He couldn't help but chuckle. "Is this one of your new flirting techniques, Knight? Because if it is, I might just vomit right now."

The chaser stared at him with an absurd expression on his face. "For Agrippa's sake, Regulus, can't you take a compliment for once in your life? I mean, I couldn't even levitate properly until I was in second year and this, this thing you have achieved in third year."

"It's nothing really but thank you, my friend. I'm sure you could do a shitload of them yourself if you just pay attention to Professor Flitwick or just read the books," Reg pointed out. "And I don't mean those weird text books we have. Those from the library, you should definitely read them. They're much more useful than the ones we use for classes."

Knight scoffed. "I'm never the one for charms, Reg and everyone knows it. I only took that subject because it was required. I'm better off with Potions to be honest."

"Whatever suits you, Knight," Reg sighed. He turned to his closet and continued opening it. He took his right wrist and swiped it in front of the keyhole and just like that, the door faded from sight.

"But honestly though, are you okay?"

Reg turned to face Knight in surprise. He almost cringed at the thought of it but with the amount of times he had faced that question, he knew what to answer almost instinctively. "I'm fine."

**_liar_**

"Are you truly sure about that? Because I have-"

_**you're a fucking coward**_

"I'm fine, okay? There's nothing to worry-"

_**Stop.**_

"-been seeing lately that you-"

**_YOU'RE._**

**_A. _**

**_FUCKING._**

**_COWARD._**

"I said I'm fine, Knightley. Stop worrying about me like a mother fucking hen. I'm not a damn child."

Knightley raised his hands in defeat. "Okay, okay, just asking. No need to get all fussy now."

Reg watched the doors of his closet come back to life as he muttered the sayings to which commanded a close. He held his forehead against the closet's wooden exterior and bit his lip.

**_coward._**

**_you. fucking. coward._**

**_coward._**

**_fucking. coward._**

_**you have become one of them.**_

_ **liar.**_

_ **fucking. liar.**_

_ **you. fucking. coward.**_

_**liar.**_

"Reg?"

"Reg?"

"Were you even listening to me?"

He blinked. "What?"

"Well that answers my question," the chaser scoffed, leaning against the other closets for support. He crossed his arms and sighed. "I'm going to screw this up, aren't I?"

Reg snorted. "What in Merlin's name makes you think that? You're practically a god at Quidditch. Screwing up is something you're incapable of when it comes to the damn game."

"I don't know, Reg. I'm just so bloody nervous right now. Don't get me wrong here, I think I'm good. I mean, people keep saying so, so it must be true, isn't it?"

"Of course, it's true, Knight. You're one of the few people in this team who wasn't accepted just because of your status or your looks or your money. You are actually damn amazing at Quidditch and that, my friend, is still an understatement."

The chaser groaned. He covered his face with his hands in a weak attempt to hide his nerves. The boy was a complete wreck that Reg was positive his vibe of extreme lack of self-confidence could be felt from a mile away. Not that _h_e was ever confident himself.

Knight put his hands down and looked at his best friend with uncertainty. "I don't know about that, Reg. Potter always kicks my arse and-"

Before he could say anything further, Reg cut him off, unable to handle this conversation and to where it was heading. He didn't like seeing Knight like this. No matter how dense he was with other people's feelings, Reg knew he didn't deserve this and as always, he did something about it.

"And yes, he does kick your arse sometimes but that does not mean you aren't a good player. You are, Knight. You truly are. You may not have defeated Potter yet but that doesn't define you as a player. Other people don't define who you are. You define who you are yourself. You and you alone, nobody else."

"I know I'm good at Quidditch, Reg but it's just other people... I just... I don't think my good is good enough," Knight looked down, staring at his shoes. He gritted his teeth, loathing this rare moment of vulnerability.

Reg almost choked at his words but did his best not to show it. He frowned and patted his friend on the back. "Stop moping around, okay? It'll do you no good, Knight."

"Wow. Some best friend you are," the chaser replied, his eyes still glued to the ground.

Reg rolled his eyes. "I'm just saying you should stop sulking about it. There's a game that needs winning and you moping around here isn't going to help accomplish anything. Get back up and be the best Quidditch player I know you to be."

His friend suddenly looked up to him, disbelief in his face. "Best Quidditch player? Stop playing with me, Reg. You know that I fucking hate those kind of jokes."

Reg dropped the gear he was holding and looked at him, outraged. "Joke? Out of the four years I have known you, you actually think I would be fucking joking with something as serious as this? News flash, Montague, I am not simply fooling you around for nothing. Everything I said to you is the truth and the truth alone and if you would rather pick a stranger's opinion of you to believe in rather than mine, that is just completely fucked up!"

Reg felt eyes staring at him in surprise. He didn't really give a damn though. He was furious, utterly infuriated but as always, Knightley hadn't noticed this. Nobody did really. All they saw was a friend comforting another, even if it was through strange ways such as this.

Knightley looked at him nervously. "I'm sorry, Reg. I didn't think of it that way," he said, "But thank you, my friend. I really needed that." The chaser let out a small smile and then returned his gaze to the floor.

Reg continued to slip into his Quidditch gear quietly, too tired to even bother replying to his friend. If it weren't for Teresa yelling the time, he wouldn't have even bothered to pick up the pace. He was just too tired.

Everyone turned their attention to the chaser as his traditional pre-game speech began. Reg had no intentions of listening to him, best friend or not. He already had enough and gave enough motivational advice from and to him to make Reg sick.

He shook his head and continued to put his gear on, constantly clenching and unclenching his hands into fists. As the team captain's words began to fade in his mind, his thoughts began to wander, sending him to drown in an abyss of thoughts he knew he could never get out of.

He was many things as of the moment. Although the thing that stood out the most was that he was pissed, just downright pissed.

You could say he was frustrated at Knightley but even Reg himself would not believe a poor excuse such as that.

He knew better.

The world was such a screwed up place. It's a complete wreck like shards of a broken glass scattered on the ground and no matter how hard society tried to fix and repair the damage, to hide and pretend its flaws were nonexistent, they will never be able to because once a thing breaks, it can never break any more than it did before.

It is broken beyond repair.

"Hey mate, come on! The game is about to start," he heard Knightley say.

Reg took a deep breath. Looking up, everyone seemed to have escaped the room except him and Knightley, who was leaning against the doorframe, raising his eyebrow at him as if expecting something.

His previous thoughts were still fresh though and he loathed them. "Yeah, yeah. I'll be there in a moment."

The chaser looked at him with a tired expression and nodded. ''Okay. Just be quick.''

''Oh and Reg?''

''What is it, Knight?''

''Thank you.''

''That's what friends are for, is it not?''

Reg waited until his friend was gone before rummaging the pockets of his wet robes lying on the bench. His hands were shaking furiously but he did not give a damn. As long as he could paint his wrists red, he would be happy.

At least, that's what he thought.


End file.
